


Tick-Tock

by Ludwiggle73



Series: The Sad Dad Collection [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Death, Family Feels, Growing Old Together, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 16:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15319284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: One spring afternoon, Arthur suggests he and Francis go feed the ducks.[Domestic FrUK.]





	Tick-Tock

**Author's Note:**

> This has plagued me since I first heard 'Les Viex', but last night I had a rather disturbing dream that went pretty much like what you're about to read, and I figured I could either write it or go to therapy. So, here it is. My thanks to Jacques Brel, for haunting my head for half a year.

_And if they tremble a bit, is it from seeing the silver clock,_

_humming in the living room,_

_Getting older, saying yes, saying no, saying:_

_I'm waiting for you?_

_—Jacques Brel, Les Vieux_

 

* * *

  


 

The clock was ancient.

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

It was a beautiful creation of silver and glass, though worn and chipped here and there. It had aged more gracefully than either of its owners, one of whom sat on the sofa, gazing at the old clock with sorrowful eyes. The man had faded. His gaze was no longer a vibrant azure, his hair no longer silken gold. Wrinkles scored his face, a furrowed forehead of past worries, but lines about the mouth that told of many laughs, as well. But he wasn’t laughing now.

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

Another man shuffled into the room, slow gait dependent on the walking stick on his hand. It was most assuredly a walking stick, even though that term brought to mind carved wood and this was made of metal with a soft padded handle; it couldn’t be a cane, because canes were for old men. This man, who was far from young, hobbled slowly to the arm of the sofa.

“That old thing,” he said of the clock, but he could have been regarding anything in the house. When no response came, he went on briskly, “Come now, none of this grim clock-watching. Turn on the telly if you need something to watch.”

The Frenchman was motionless, staring unblinkingly at the silver clock.

His husband stared at him, expression briefly slipping to despair before he composed himself with the old familiar determination—or, as others called it, stubbornness. “Just because Alfred and Matthew can’t make it here this summer is no reason to mope about this way. They have their own lives to live. Bloody hell, even the grandchildren have their own lives to live now. They’ll be here for Christmas, they always are. We’ll see them then.”

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

The Englishman suppressed a shiver, unnerved by the quiet. He’d never been the cheery one, but his husband left him no choice now. “Well, we needn’t sit round the house. We’ll go for a stroll, shall we? To the park. We’ll feed the ducks, you always liked that.”

A soft sigh.

Taking the response, however small, as a good sign, the Englishman patted his husband’s shoulder with an arthritic hand and turned away. “I’ll fetch us some bread crumbs. Just a tick.”

_Tock. Tick. Tock._

In the clock’s silver face, the Frenchman saw himself reflected. Despite his best intentions, he had become one of the elderly. An old thing, left behind, unvisited by family, ashamed to be falling apart, slowly flickering out like a faulty light bulb. He was a husk, that’s what he’d become. But he hadn’t always been.

_Tick._

The steady, reliable hands of the clock stopped, then unwound, flowing backward—and as they did, his reflection was replaced by the faces of his past. The slack horror of his parents as they perished in a nursing home, older than he was now but not by very much. A brigade of cats and dogs, all of them loving and loyal companions. Teachers, some strict, others kind. Girlfriends outnumbering boyfriends, but it was a boy who won his heart in the end. A pretty young man, fiery green eyes at odds with the sprinkling of freckles across his nose. Endless images of him, embracing him, chasing him, fighting with him, waking up to him. Then, another pair of green eyes, the lovely friend-of-a-friend who had agreed to surrogate for them, not once but twice. The red-cheeked faces of their babies, chubby toddlers, gap-toothed children with plasters on their knees, gawky but hardy teenagers, well-adjusted adults smiling at their own squealing broods. Alfred’s wedding, such pride, such glory. Matthew’s ceremony, no less wonderful for being private. And of course, his own wedding, his husband so dashing at the end of the aisle, blushing through his vows, those thin lips as soft as always.

He’d led a good life. He wasn’t sad about that. It was just a shame this was the final page.

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

He tried to focus on the silver clock once more, tried to bring himself back to reality where he could make his goodbyes, but his eyes would not obey. He knew fighting was futile, sensed that it would only cause needless pain. So he just gave in, let the room blur into nothing, let his eyelids droop shut, let another sigh ease from his weary lungs. There was no regret. This wasn’t goodbye—only _au revoir._

_Tick-tock._

“There we are, a bag of crumbs to die for. Ready to be off?”

_Tick-tock._

In the doorway, the Englishman grew quite still. The only movement in the room was the hands of the clock. Very slowly, slower even than what had become normal, he crossed the living room and stopped again at the arm of the sofa. Softly, he asked, “Love?”

_Tick-tock._

The clock was ancient. It had seen happiness and sadness, growth and grief, beginnings and endings. As it watched the Englishman collapse, sobbing into his husband’s chest, its hands did not offer comfort. Its silver face did not change. It simply counted the seconds, the minutes, the hours until they would meet again.

_Tick-tock._

  
  


_The End._


End file.
